


Beasts Under The Bed

by Scribblesinink (Scribbler)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dreams, Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-17
Updated: 2008-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:04:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribbler/pseuds/Scribblesinink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brothers always look out for each other: in life, in death… And in dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beasts Under The Bed

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [I Mostri Sotto il Letto](https://archiveofourown.org/works/123750) by [Neve83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neve83/pseuds/Neve83)



> Many thanks to [tanaquisga](http://tanaquisga.livejournal.com/) for reading over an earlier draft of this, and to [erinrua](http://erinrua.livejournal.com/) for picking nits. Lyric snippet and title from Metallica's _Enter Sandman_.

_East Iowa, Thursday_

The first time it happened, Sam didn't think much of it—other than to worry there was something really, _really_ wrong with his head. Exhausted from the seemingly endless chase to find Bela and reclaim the Colt before she could pawn it off, they'd finally stopped in a small town surrounded by corn fields with a name Sam couldn't even remember. A quick burger in the diner across the street, and they'd both collapsed onto the lumpy mattress of their beds, too tired even to get out of their clothes.

Sam was asleep the instant his head hit the pillow…

 

 

… the parking lot he's in is strange and familiar both. There're so many motels he's stayed at along the way that they all sort of blend together in a random recollection of faded curtains, stained ceilings and potholed parking lots. Seeing the Impala as a black hulking shape in the spot in front of one of the rooms sets his mind at ease. Flickering light spills from the room's dirty window and tells Sam the TV is on inside, but the curtains are closed so he can't see in.

It doesn't matter; the Impala's presence tells him all he needs to know.

He finds a key in his pocket, and inserts it into the lock. He opens the door and—

Sam inhales sharply as he stops dead in his tracks. Dean's on his back on the bed next to the door, his eyes closed, head tilted back, a goofy grin on his face. There's a woman sitting on top of Dean. She's naked, with scraps of a black lacy bra still clinging to her shoulders, and she's moving languidly in that particular way that's as old as time. Sam recognizes her: she's the waitress who served them their burgers. He drops his gaze to the floor, mortified at walking in on them, and heels around, banging his shoulder so hard against the door frame that tears spring into his eyes…

 

 

… Sam shot up straight with a strangled gasp of pain, for a moment unsure about his surroundings. His eyes stung, and the room swam in the red glow from the motel's 'Vacancy' sign outside their door. He blinked to clear his vision, and gradually things took on shape again: the small writing desk in the corner, a single easy chair and small coffee table near the window, and a strip of gleaming bathroom mirror visible through a gap in the door.

In the next bed, someone moved. Still caught up in the dream's images, Sam hardly dared look, until Dean's sleepy voice drifted over to him.

"Whatsa matter?"

Sam felt his cheeks heat up. "Nothin'," he muttered.

There was no way in hell he was gonna tell Dean about the dream he'd just had. Because dreaming about your brother having sex with the hot little waitress from across the street was _wrong_ in so many ways…

Dean let out a noise that could've meant just about anything, but Sam figured it was something along the lines of _get the hell back to sleep, then_. A few moments later, Dean's breathing evened out, and Sam knew his brother had drifted off again. He let out a sigh of relief.

What the heck was wrong with him? First that horrible dream about Bela—Sam's stomach lurched at the memory—and now he was dreaming about his brother making out with random waitresses…?

Maybe his subconscious agreed with Dean: maybe he did need to get laid more often.

Unable to find a comfortable position again and thoughts running wild, Sam tossed and turned until the first gray light of dawn started filtering into the room. He threw back the covers and padded on bare feet into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him before turning on the light; no need to wake up Dean yet. Red-rimmed eyes stared back at him out of the mirror and he grimaced at the dark shadows beneath them.

He reached into the stall to turn on the shower so the water had a chance to heat up before he shucked his boxers and—his eyes went wide as he caught his reflection in the mirror again. No stranger to bruises or cuts and scrapes covering his body, the large, purple bruise that was spreading on his left arm nevertheless gave him pause. He was certain it hadn't been there the day before when they discovered Bela's double-cross, though there were plenty others where Jeremy had taken a baseball bat to him, most already fading to a sickly yellowish green.

Sam gingerly prodded his upper arm with a finger, wincing at the dull pain. He must've run into something somewhere. Though he'd be damned if he could remember when.

Steam from the shower fogged up the mirror until Sam could no longer make out the bruise. He sighed wearily as he moved under the spray. Seemed as if he could add sleepwalking to his insomnia and weird sex dreams problem.

 

_West Iowa, Friday_

The road was straight all the way to the horizon shimmering in the distance, and largely deserted. Even driving on the wrong side of the speed limit, Dean had plenty of time to keep casting quick glances at Sam, dozing in the passenger seat. Sam's head had fallen back against the seat and his mouth hung open. He looked like a fish gasping for air, and part of Dean wanted to stuff a sticky candy bar between Sam's lips and see what'd happen, just because he could. But he behaved himself, and let Sam sleep.

One look at his brother that morning, and Dean had known Sam hadn't slept well. Dark smudges beneath tight eyes, face pale and drawn. At least now, Sam slept like a baby. Dean smiled. Ever since he was a little boy, Sam had always slept best in a moving car. Dean didn't really believe in all that psychology crap one could read in magazines scattered throughout ER waiting rooms, but he was willing to bet his last days that it had something to do with the car being the only real home Sam'd ever really known, the only place Sam felt safe.

A tiny strand of drool started to trickle from Sam's lip, and Dean gently nudged his brother, until Sam huffed a protest in his sleep, closed his mouth and curled up into himself, never waking. Dean reached for the radio and turned the sound down a bit further.

Sam needed to rest more than Dean needed music to stay awake.

 

_Wyoming, Monday_

Sam recognizes the room instantly. He's only seen it once before that he can remember, but it's burned onto his mind and he doesn't think he could ever forget. The bright-eyed baby in the crib gurgles contentedly, gazing up at a mobile that twirls gently on an unfelt air current. Sam knows it's a dream, knows he's as helpless to stop what's to come as he was in Azazel's vision, and he urges himself to wake up before it's too late. He doesn't want to see. But he can't seem to wake up; the nursery refuses to revert back to the seventies-themed motel room Sam remembers falling asleep in.

All of a sudden, Dad races into the room, much to Sam's surprise. He expected his mother. John snatches up the baby the same instant cold flames start to lick at the crib and shoves the child into the arms of a sleepy-looking little boy right outside of the room.

"Take your brother outside, fast as you can. Don't look back. Now, Dean, go."

Sam blinks in shock, ignoring the fire that crackles at his back. This isn't what the demon showed him. This is different, and not at all like the nightmares he had for weeks after Cold Oaks. He remembers how Dean once said it was him who carried Sam out of the house on the night of the fire. Sam wonders why he's dreaming about that night now, and why it's not the same as the vision before, of Mom sliding up against the wall to get stuck bleeding to the ceiling.

The little boy—Dean—clutches the baby close to his chest as he totters down the stairs on unsteady legs. Sam can sense the boy's confusion and fear, and his concerns that he might drop his little brother. Dean tightens his arms around the baby until he whimpers. Once outside, Dean stops, looks up at the house. The nursery is alight with orange flames, the shadowy shape of Azazel visible against the glow. The baby whimpers again, and Dean leans over him, murmuring, "Don't worry, Sammy. Daddy'll make it alright."

_Okay, this is weird,_ Sam thinks. He's never dreamed _of_ himself before, always experienced his dreams through his own eyes. But here, he feels like an invisible spectator, a fly on the wall who can only watch helplessly as events unfold. The utter faith in their father that's audible in little Dean's voice tears at Sam's heart.

He knows there's nothing John can do that'll make it better…

John comes running out of the house, scoops up both his sons and carries them to safety while the windows explode outward and splinters of glass rain down. Sam hisses in pain when a stray shard catches his cheek and slices him.

He wonders if this is how it really happened, or if it's his imagination making things up. His father's despair and terror and Dean's shock and bewilderment feel real enough.

Sam's chest is tight and his throat hurts with unshed tears. He's not sure what's worse: the vision of his mother Azazel gave him in Cold Oaks, or this dream. He doesn't really care; he simply longs to make it stop, to wake up so he can stop feeling their pain. He wishes he could—

 

—the world shifts crazily, and the next instant, Sam's alone in a field. Gone are the flashing lights of the fire trucks, the curious murmur of the neighbors watching, and Dean's soft sniffles as he snuggles close to their father.

The field looks like a park on a hot summer's day, with clusters of leafy trees providing shade for picnicking families. The grass stretching out before Sam is so green it hurts his eyes and the sky overhead is an unnaturally deep blue marred with a few fluffy cotton-ball clouds. Far in the distance, a man and a boy are throwing a baseball back and forth.

Sam smiles, pleased to find he has at least some control over the dream even if he didn't manage to wake himself up. Idly curious, he wanders over to the man and boy. As he comes closer, he realizes that the man is Dean. And the boy is Ben Braeden, the child they saved from the clutches of a changeling. Lisa Braeden sits on a blanket off to the side, a basket filled with Dean's favorite snacks beside her.

Sam frowns in confusion. Why ever would his mind come up with something that looks like a scene straight out of the dream he saw in Dean's…

 

 

… with a startled gasp, Sam woke up. He scrabbled around for a flashlight, not wanting to turn on the bedside lamp and wake Dean. Once his hand closed around the light, he turned it on and angled the beam in Dean's direction, careful to shield it in such a way that he didn't shine directly on Dean's face. His brother rested on his side, curled legs tangled in the blanket, one hand stuffed underneath his cheek on the pillow. Dean's features were soft, relaxed; the lines around his eyes not quite so pronounced, and a happy smile played around his lips as he slept.

Sam's cheek stung a little and he wiped at his face, not even surprised to see a smear of blood on his fingertips. It looked a rusty brown in the yellow glow of the flashlight.

It was the final piece of evidence he needed

Sam switched off the light and let himself fall back against his own pillow, gazing up at the fly-specked ceiling. It hadn't been _his_ dream… hadn't been _his_ nightmare about the night Mom died. Nor had it been _his_ utopic fantasy about Lisa and her son.

The dreams had been Dean's.

Sam's heart ached for Dean, just like it had done the first time he'd learned that somewhere deep down, so deeply hidden that Dean probably didn't even realize it himself, his brother also dreamed about a normal life: wife, two-point-five kids, white picket fence. He'd never admit it, would deny it if Sam ever dared bring it up, but Sam _knew_. And Dean could've had that life, if not for him…

Sam flung himself on his stomach, pounding the pillow into shape with more force than strictly necessary. He owed Dean everything. And he'd been the lucky one: he'd lived that normal life, however briefly, with Jess. Didn't they say it was better to have loved and lost…? Familiar pain, old but still sharp, shot through him at the memory and he pushed the thought away, turning his mind to more urgent matters.

Such as: how had he ended up in Dean's dream in the first place? They were fresh out of African dream root; he'd not ingested any part of Dean's body—that he knew at least, because, _eww_—and still he'd slipped into his brother's subconscious.

Which of them had shifted the scene from that terrible night in Lawrence to the happy wonderland in the park? Had it been Dean's subconscious, as a natural part of the process of dreams? Or had Sam done some more dreamweaving? He'd done it before, after all.

Just concentrated, and it happened, he'd told Bobby. And as far as Sam knew, that was all there was to it. But now, he wondered if Bobby hadn't been right, if perhaps his psychic abilities had not died with Azazel after all.

He turned over onto his back, wide awake, knowing he didn't stand a chance in hell to get back to sleep for the rest of the night. His thoughts drifted again to the scenes he'd seen in Dean's head. He'd never realized how scared his brother must've been that night, never thought about it, really. And fear wasn't something a Winchester man spoke about. After all, it wasn't until they'd returned to Lawrence, two decades later, that Sam even learned it had been Dean who carried him out of the house.

But it was enough to give Dean nightmares still, twenty-five years later.

 

_Wyoming, Tuesday_

Gradually, Dean drifted back to wakefulness, the scent of fresh coffee tugging at his subconscious. A yawn clawed itself out of his throat, scrunching up his face. He stretched, languishing in the sensation of tensing his muscles and loosening them again. He felt… refreshed, something that didn't happen too often. There was a vague memory of a nightmare niggling in the back of his mind, but the rest of his dreams must've been pleasant, because he was well-rested and relaxed. It felt a little like a damned-good-sex afterglow.

Though it'd have been even better if actual sex had been part of the package.

Some of his good mood left him when he finally opened his eyes and saw Sam sitting at the table, fully dressed and tapping away at the keyboard of his laptop. There was a jagged line of crusted blood on his cheek, as if he'd cut himself shaving. Dean wondered if Sam was suffering from nightmares again; he'd watched Sam go through a bout of insomnia and bad dreams in the months after Jess died, and then again when Sam's psychic powers manifested themselves and dreams and visions started to run together. He'd looked a little like he did now: edgy, tense, weary, like he was carrying the weight of the world…

"Did you sleep at all?" Dean asked through another yawn.

Sam turned at the question. "A little," he said, but from the look on his face, Dean didn't believe a word of it. "I got coffee."

He gestured at the source of the smell that had woken Dean: a large foam cup that sported the logo of a coffee-bar chain. "You looked like you were having pleasant dreams," Sam added. At Dean's raised eyebrow, he explained, "You were smiling in your sleep."

"Oh." Dean sat up and rubbed a hand across his face. "Dunno. I guess so."

For some reason, that made Sam smile a little.

o0o

Sam wound up in Dean's dreams night after night. He had no clue as to how it happened, or how he could stop it. Sometimes, he'd manage to drag himself out and wake up, but as soon as he closed his eyes and drifted back into a slumber, he was in Dean's head again. And short of staying up all night and getting no sleep at all, Sam was stuck in there as long as Dean slept.

After a while, Sam gave up trying to keep out of Dean's mind and decided he might as well make the best of it. He quickly discovered that controlling what happened in Dean's dreams came as natural as thinking once he put his mind to it. And though Dean would put up a tough front during the day, it was at night that Sam learned how deep Dean's fears really ran.

Time and again, Sam pulled Dean from scorching hell fires, dragged him out of horrifying visions filled with torture and blood and agony, tore Dean away from demons taunting him until Dean screamed and begged for mercy. Those nightmares were enough to give Sam bad dreams of his own whenever he tried to catch up on the lost sleep by snoozing in the car. He often woke up gasping and shuddering to find Dean staring at him with barely concealed worry.

But even so, Sam continued to banish Dean's harrowing visions. If he couldn't keep Dean from dying and going to actual hell, he should at least save him from hellish dreams while he still lived. Sam replaced the nightmares with happier moments vaguely remembered, or fantasies confessed during one of Dean's weaker moments: peeking over the rim of the Grand Canyon, the Colorado river a thin, silver line glinting with moonlight far below; lounging on a deck chair on a California beach while a constant string of scantily clad girls strolled by; reliving that long lazy summer at Pastor Jim's when Dad was off hunting werewolves… Jeremy Frost had been right about one thing: a dream walker was like a god, and anything was possible.

Dean never knew Sam was there, but to see his brother wake up with a lazy stretch, a wide yawn and a good-natured grin whenever Sam quipped about him having slept like a baby, was all the reward Sam needed.

However, his efforts to keep Dean safe from the terrors haunting his mind took its toll on Sam. Though technically asleep, Sam soon found that spending the night running around Dean's dreams provided him with no rest for himself. And while Dean grew more and more rested from long nights of undisturbed sleep, Sam had to get by on short naps that were filled with terrifying nightmares that nobody could rescue him from.

 

_Oklahoma, Saturday_

Something was going on with Sam.

Had been going on for a while. At first Dean brushed it off as one of Sam's moods, hoping that whatever it was, it'd resolve itself. He knew Sam wasn't sleeping well; he'd had enough experience with his brother's bad dreams and bouts of insomnia to recognize the signs. Each morning, Sam was up and about before Dean woke, waiting with coffee and donuts, and he dozed endlessly in the car during the day. Those catnaps were plagued by nightmares, and more than once did Dean have to let go of the wheel and reach over to shake Sam awake because he was twitching and whimpering with terror in his sleep.

Mechanically eating breakfast, Dean kept sneaking worried glances through his lashes at his brother, slouching low on the bench across from him. Judging from the way Sam stared into his coffee, slowly stirring while his short-stack sat cold and untouched, he could just as well have stared openly, and Sam still wouldn't have noticed.

Sam and his dreams wasn't new, exactly. He'd had bad dreams even as a kid. Back then Dean had always found it easy to chase them off: he simply crawled into bed with his little brother and curled up around him protectively, murmuring nonsense in Sam's ear.

Then, later, in the weeks and months after he pulled Sam from the fire that killed Jessica, Dean stood by helplessly while Sam suffered through guilt and grief. But even those days hadn't take the toll on Sam that the current string of nightmares did. He'd lost a lot weight; he was growing thin and gangly and no number of layered shirts or baggy pants could hide it from Dean. Sam's face was lean and drawn, skin stretched tight over sharp bones and around bloodshot eyes that looked dull.

And then there were the bruises and scrapes.

It was like second nature for Dean to keep track of Sam's physical well-being. He could remember when, where and how for every scar on Sam's skin. But now? He knew Sam tried to hide the worst from him, but strange contusions and cuts kept appearing for no clear reason at all. And when he confronted Sam about them, his brother shrugged, murmuring something about being clumsy and bumping into doorways or restroom stalls. Or he flat-out denied any knowledge about where he got the injuries.

Like Dean'd ever believe that.

Yeah, something was definitely wrong. Or more wrong than usual. But Sam stubbornly refused to talk about it, or even admit to it. And Dean might've let things slide. Might've let it be, just for a few more days, to see if Sam came around on his own, if not for last night…

Last night had scared the living crap out of him.

They'd snuck into the backyard of a haunted house, planning to dig up the corpse of a murdered woman because she kept killing the house's tenants. Job should've been a simple salt-and-burn, something they could practically do in their sleep. But the woman's spirit had appeared among the trees in the yard before they had found her body. Dean got a shot off but she'd moved and the salt slug had gone wide, and the very next instant he'd found himself on his back on a pile of wet, smelly dirt from the shallow grave, cold hands wrapped tight around his throat and cutting off his airways. And Sam…

Sam had done fuck all.

He'd been staring with a stupid look on his face, mouth slightly open, as if he'd never seen a friggin' ghost in his entire life, while the damn bitch squeezed the life out of Dean. Dean's vision had grown dim while he struggled to catch a hold of the ghost and tear her off. But although her hands around his neck felt solid enough, he'd failed to get a grip, his fingers slicing through gossamer tendrils of cold mist. He'd believed his time had come sooner than expected, and thought that the last thing he'd see would be his brother doing jack shit to help.

"Sam…" he'd rasped, the word barely audible.

The soft noise had been enough to drag Sam out of whatever funk he'd been in. He'd snatched up the shotgun and fired off another rock salt round, hitting the ghost smack in the back of her head.

It had been close, damned close. Finger-shaped bruises still showed on Dean's throat.

"Dude…?" Dean tried. Sam kept twirling the spoon in his coffee. Dean half-expected Sam would wear a hole in the bottom any second now, he'd been stirring the damn cup that long.

"Sammy? Sam!"

Sam gave a start, and finally tore his unseeing gaze up from the cup. He slowly focused on Dean before he sagged a little further in the seat.

"Yeah, I fucked up," he muttered tiredly. "I know."

"That's not…" Dean shook his head. "Dude, whatever it is that's buggin' you…"

Sam gave him a weak grin that didn't reach his eyes. "It's nothin'."

It was the wrong thing to say.

"Nothing?" Dean scowled. "That bitch nearly killed me and you just fuckin' stood there!"

Sam glanced away. "I thought…" He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, all right? Won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," Dean snapped. "I've got precious little time left as it is."

Sam flinched visibly, and Dean instantly felt guilty. A sudden thought occurred to him. "Is that what you're not sleeping?" he asked, his tone gentle. "Tryin' to find a way to break the deal?" Sam didn't reply. "Well, don't," Dean said. "It's not worth killin' yourself over."

Sam looked at him then, eyes shining with tears and filled with fathomless misery. The look was more than Dean could handle and he waved at the waitress to bring them their check.

"Let's get the hell out of here."

 

_Arkansas, Saturday_

That night, Sam crept out of their room after Dean had fallen asleep. He walked along the quiet streets aimlessly, hunched deep inside the collar of his jacket against the soft drizzle that fell from the sky, remembering the night before. It had taken him precious seconds to realize that it was _real_, that the angry spirit strangling Dean wasn't any nightmare vision and that his mental effort to stop it wasn't making a lick of difference. By the time that little fact had sunk in, it'd almost been too late. Sam shivered, though the night wasn't cold.

He had to think this through; he had to find a way to stop his dream walking before it killed either of them.

He considered calling Bobby. Perhaps the old hunter knew something, or could sift through his ancient books, or ask around. But Sam dreaded the questions that would surely follow. He wasn't entirely certain that what happened was not Dean's doing but he feared it might be _him_. Bobby'd asked, that first time when Sam'd killed that Frost kid in a dream, if it had anything to do with his psychic abilities. Sam had denied it, but truth was, he simply didn't know. He'd dreamed with Dean once, entered his brother's subconscious, experienced some of his brother's deepest desires. What if that had opened up a pathway, or created a psychic connection or something?

Sam yawned until his jaw cracked. God, what he wouldn't give for a good night's sleep… But the over-the-counter sleeping aids hadn't done a damn thing, and short of ransacking a local pharmacy, he couldn't get his hands on the good stuff. Certainly not at this hour.

But there was an all-night liquor store across the street. A bottle of Jack might just do the trick too, Sam decided, and he crossed the road, zigzagging around the muddy rain puddles that dotted the blacktop. He knew he'd pay for it in the morning, but if drinking himself into a stupor was the way to get a full night's sleep, he'd happily pay the price. If last night had taught him anything, it was that he desperately needed some rest if he wanted to be any good on the job and not get Dean killed.

A few minutes later Sam walked back out, cradling a bottle of golden brown liquid. By the time he reached their motel room, most of it was gone, and he struggled with the key. Who had put three friggin' locks on the door, anyway?

In the end, he went by touch more than sight to find the right hole. Once indoors, he swigged down the final swallow as he stumbled toward his empty bed. He didn't bother to undress, simply kicked off his boots and dropped onto the pillow. A minute later, he was asleep.

But the result of Sam's desperate attempt was not what he'd imagined. Being totally tanked didn't stop him from ending up in Dean's dreams again; it just kept him from having control over what happened in them, and Sam was forced to watch impotently how Dean went through several very familiar nightmare scenarios.

o0o

They both woke cranky and exhausted. Sam lurched into the bathroom to upchuck what little he had left in his stomach. Dean appeared in the doorway while Sam clung to the bowl, holding up the empty whiskey bottle, a silent _what the fuck…?_ in his raised eyebrows. Sam growled something unintelligible, and Dean dropped the bottle in the wastebasket without a further word.

They didn't speak while they packed up their things, and Sam skipped breakfast—he almost gagged at the thought of eating anything, though Dean said eggs would help. Dean did get him a cup of strong coffee from the diner down the block. The bitter liquid somewhat settled Sam's stomach and alleviated the pounding of the marching band that had apparently taken up residence in his head.

The caffeine also kept him going for an hour or so after Dean drove out of the motel room parking lot. But by mid-morning Sam found himself nodding off in the passenger seat.

A blaring trumpet and the angry roar of a powerful engine tore him from his slumber. Tires screeched, and the car swerved sharply, slamming Sam painfully against the door.

Heart thudding in his chest and suddenly wide awake from the adrenaline flooding his veins, Sam turned to look at his brother. White-faced, Dean stared back, eyes round with shock. Sam glanced over his shoulder to see a large semi disappear into the distance.

"… fuck!" Dean swore, a tremor in his voice.

Sam didn't have to ask what had happened. It wasn't often Dean risked falling asleep behind the wheel. He usually realized it in time to take preventive measures: open the windows to the cold night air, turn up the radio, stop for coffee… But Sam'd seen Dean's dreams last night, and he couldn't blame his brother for being exhausted.

"There's a rest area a couple of miles on." Sam pointed at a road sign. "Maybe catch a few z's…?" He'd offer to take over, but he knew damn well he was in no condition to drive himself. He was bound to be even more tired than Dean could be, and still badly hung-over to boot.

Dean didn't protest the suggestion, his silence revealing how much the near-miss had scared him. "Yeah."

Ten minutes later, Dean parked the Impala in the shadow of a couple of large oak trees. Heavy branches hung over the car park, the thick canopy casting deep shadows. Dean lowered his window a bit and scooted down in his seat, stuffing his legs underneath the steering column until he could rest his head against the seat. He closed his eyes, shifted against the leather until he was comfortable and uttered a soft grunt before he stilled. A few minutes later, his breathing evened out, and Sam knew he was asleep.

The car was quiet, the roar of passing traffic on the nearby highway muted by a row of thick bushes and tall trees. The sun was out, its bright light stabbing Sam's eyes compounding his headache, but it was pleasantly cool in the car in the shade beneath the trees. Gradually, the adrenaline left him, and Sam's eyes drifted shut…

 

 

… the smell that assaults him is awfully familiar: a blend of blood and antiseptic. Sam doesn't need to see the nurses in white uniforms bustle about, or read the sign over the counter that says _Admission _to know he's in a hospital. He's standing in a corner of the hallway, hidden behind a large, drooping plant someone put there in an attempt to give the place a bit of a homey feel. Sam swivels his head, looking around the ER and wondering why he's here. To the left are curtained-off areas where he thinks they treat patients, and on the right side of the hallway is a waiting room with several rows of plastic chairs and old magazines. Dean's sitting in one of the chairs, tapping his foot to a nervous rhythm only he can hear and browsing through a magazine he's holding upside down. Every few seconds, he glances up, eyes shifting between one of the closed curtains and the double sliding doors that lead to a rainy day outside. There's something odd about Dean, and it takes Sam a minute to figure it out. But then he knows: he's looking at a much younger Dean. And with the realization comes the memory.

He knows this hospital.

When he was fourteen, Dad had gone out on a hunt, leaving Dean to look after Sam. John's decision to go alone hadn't sat well with Dean, who would much rather go hunting than babysit a sullen teenage brother. And it hadn't sat well with Sam either, who had decided he was plenty old enough to look after himself. They'd lived—squatted—in a real house at the time, with a creaking front porch and rickety wooden steps leading down to a muddy driveway. Sam remembers he got bored out of his skull that afternoon: no friends, school work done, no television in the house, and Dean working on that stupid car Dad had signed over to him when Dean turned eighteen. To alleviate the boredom, Sam threw pebbles he dug from the mud at Dean, who leaned into the engine, fiddling with God knew what. Sam hit him on the back, once, twice, before Dean growled over his shoulder, "Cut it out, Sammy."

Which fourteen-year old Sam had taken as encouragement, and he'd picked up the pace. He flung another stone, bigger this time, and it thunked against the fender.

"Goddammit, Sam, if you scratch the paint…!" Dean leaned over and rubbed at the Impala with his sleeve. "I said, stop it!"

"Make me." Sam flicked another pebble at his brother.

With a snarl, Dean lunged at him. Sam sprang to his feet, but although he was already nearly as tall as Dean, Dean had years, experience and weight on him and a few moments later, Sam found himself on his stomach, pinned to the ground. Blades of grass tickled his nose while Dean held his hands together behind his back, one knee on his ribs to keep him down.

"Are you fuckin' deaf?" Dean hissed. "Cut it out, okay?"

"You're not Dad," Sam gasped. It was hard to breathe with the weight of his brother grinding him into the dirt. "You can't tell me what to do."

"I damn well can," Dean said. "Dad left me in charge, remember? And right now, I'm telling you to stop acting like a snot-nosed little brat. Got that?" He increased the pressure of his knee, and Sam whimpered.

"All right. Fine! Now let me go."

Dean waited another second before his weight disappeared and Sam could breathe again. He drew sweet air deep into his lungs and watched from the corner of his eye as Dean walked away.

It should've ended there, Sam thinks, watching Dean toss another worried glare at the curtain. He should've let it go at that. Except he'd been young and stupid and pissed off at Dad and Dean and the world.

Sam had pushed up off the grass and lunged for Dean. Dean heard him coming, whirled around and tripped him up in one fluid gesture. Going down, Sam'd hit the steps leading up the porch with a sickening snap and instant agony flaring from his left wrist all the way up to his shoulder. He'd screamed, in pain as much as in shock, tears burning in his eyes, and Dean was at his side in an instant.

"Oh fuck, Sammy, I'm sorry. Let me see."

Sam shrieked again, and it hadn't taken much of a brain for either of them to realize he'd broken his arm. Sam still has a fuzzy memory of the Impala careening on two wheels into the parking lot of the hospital, Dean out of the car and hollering for a doctor to help them before it had come to a full stop.

The door to the ER slides open and Dad comes running in, coat flapping, hair in disarray, a three-day's growth of beard shadowing his cheeks. He glances around until his gaze finds Dean, and he strides over. Dean sees him coming and rises to his feet. The magazine drops from his hands.

"Dad…" he says, looking down at his feet. "I'm sorry."

"Goddammit, Dean," John growls. "What the hell happened? Didn't I tell you to look after your little brother?"

He rants on a few minutes more, how he's charged Dean to keep Sam safe, and that apparently he can't trust him to do so. Dean appears younger than the eighteen years he'd been at the time, and he takes the dressing-down without protest.

Sam hates seeing Dean beat himself up in his sleep over something that happened more than ten years ago. More so, since Sam knows he only had himself to blame for what happened. So he concentrates, makes John pull back and take a deep breath or two before he has him apologize to Dean for yelling.

"Sam's old and wise enough to look after himself," John murmurs. "It's not right I lay this crap on you."

Dean raises his head, stares at John with suspicion in his eyes. He takes a step back.

"This'd never happen," Dean mutters. "He'd never say such things." He's almost speaking to himself.

Looking out from behind his plant in the hallway, Sam murmurs below his breath. "He should've."

Because, by God, Sam loved his dad, and after Jess died, he thought he understood John a little better. But sometimes Sam couldn't help wonder if his father hadn't gotten a few screws loose from the loss of his wife. To take it all out—

The thought dies unfinished when Sam feels eyes resting on him—and, wow, that has never happened before. He glances up to see Dean stare at him across the row of seats in the waiting room. John's gone. Dean is no longer looking eighteen, either.

"What the hell…?" Dean whispers.

And although the murmur's too soft for Sam to hear, he can read the words on Dean's lips. In a few strides across the linoleum, Dean reaches Sam, invades Sam's personal space, looming despite being a few inches shorter.

"You're in my dream," he says. It's not a question, more of an accusation. Sam doesn't deny it, he just nods.

"Little pervert," Dean continues. "How? Did you swipe some of that dream root?"

Sam shakes his head. "I don't know," he admits. "It just happens. I think maybe…" He scuffs at the floor with his boot, not in the least surprised the flooring has changed from sickly green hospital linoleum to generic brown, threadbare motel room carpet. "Bobby said that…"

Understanding dawns on Dean's face. "Your weirdo psychic powers?"

"Yeah."

"I thought they were gone?"

Sam shrugs. "So did I."

"Huh," Dean huffs, before a glint of wry humor sparks in his eyes. "So," he says, "I finally taught you to keep your grubby fingers out of my clean underwear…"

Sam rolls his eyes but Dean continues as if he hasn't noticed.

"…and now you go diggin' around in my head? See anything you like?"

"Not particularly." Sam gives another shrug. "It's not like I wanted to," he adds, a little defensive. "Your mind's not a pretty place. Dude, you have some bizarre dreams hidden in there." He points at Dean's head.

Dean watches him for a moment, new realization whirling behind his eyes. "You change things," he says. Again, it isn't a question. "The Grand Canyon… that Led Zeppelin concert… Those twin sisters with their awesome little—"

"Dean!" Sam shudders at the mention of the twins. He'd woken himself up just in time to miss the grand finale and spent the rest of the night watching old black-and-white movies on the snowy screen of the motel TV. "That last was all yours," he says. "But the rest… yeah. It's easy to make things happen, man. I just have to concentrate."

"Fuck," Dean swears. Sam's not entirely sure if Dean's freaked or simply impressed.

"And last night?"

"My fault," Sam admits. "I was wasted. I hoped it'd help me keep out, but all it did—"

"—was give me some really kooky dreams," Dean finished. "Man, it was like a bad acid trip. Don't do that again."

Sam decides not to ask what Dean knows about acid trips, good or bad. He doesn't think he wants to know. He shakes his head. "Sorry."

Dean cocks his head. "This is why you're so fuckin' tired all the time, isn't it? Because you're dream walking?"

Sam dips his head again. "Yeah."

"And you don't know how to stop it?"

"No."

"Shit." Dean starts pacing. "We'll figure it out…" He turns sharply, and starts digging through the pockets of his jacket for his phone. "I'm gonna call Bobby. He cracked the Frost case, he might know how to fix you."

Sam gives a wry bark of laughter as Dean opens his phone. "Dude… You do remember you're asleep, right?"

Dean tosses him a confused look, then growls something with a chagrined grimace as he realizes Sam's right. He stuffs the phone back in his pocket. "So, first I've to wake us…"

 

 

"… up."

On the last word Sam startled awake. He groaned at the jab of pain from a crick in his neck. Beside him, Dean gave a snort and stretched out, hitting the horn by accident. The sudden blast scared a couple of pigeons picking at crumbs into flapping away.

Sam worked his mouth; waking brought back the foul taste, like something had died under his tongue. His head pounded dully.

"You with me, Sammy?" Dean shook Sam's shoulder.

Sam shrugged away. "Yeah."

"Good." Dean pulled himself up straight, staring out the front window. After a few minutes he turned to Sam and said, "You're not dream walkin' when I'm awake, are you?"

Sam sighed. He'd hoped it'd never come to this, but for all his bluster and cockiness, Dean was a lot smarter than most people would give him credit for.

"Not exactly," he said cautiously.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean, not _exactly_?"

"When I do sleep, I'm having these nightmares…"

"I noticed," Dean said dryly, and Sam gave him a weak grin.

"I don't think they're mine. I think they're yours."

"What the…? When I'm awake? How's that possible?"

"Don't know." Sam stared ahead, pondering for a moment how to explain his theory. "I think that somehow, when I'm in your dreams, your nightmares get… stored… in my head. And they come out when I sleep."

"Well… if that ain't some fucked-up psychic shit, I don't know what is," Dean grumbled.

He fell silent and Sam waited. He was too numb to think of anything to say. The oak trees' shadows retreated before the sun's rotation, and gradually the temperature in the car went up. Sam cranked his window down, grateful for the breeze that wafted in. He was so damn tired, he thought he could sleep for a week.

"Okay," Dean said, startling Sam from a light doze. "One step at the time. First of all, you need to get some real rest. And then we'll fix this. We'll call Bobby, or look up Missouri. Whatever it takes."

"You'd have to deal with your nightmares again," Sam warned.

Dean tossed him a look. "I can handle the nightmares," he said. "What I can't handle, is you wandering around like a living zombie. Or a friggin' ghost." He gave a sudden smirk. "I might decide to shoot your pale ass."

Sam guffawed. "Just so long as you use rock salt. At least it won't kill me."

Dean grinned back. "No. But it'll hurt like hell."

He switched on the Impala's engine. "We'll hole up at the nearest motel. We'll figure something out, Sammy. Don't worry, I got ya." He reached over to turn on the radio and Metallica came on.

_"Hush little baby, don't say a word_

_never mind that noise you heard_

_it's just the beasts under your bed_

_in your closet, in your head."_

Sam let the music wash over him. It was such a relief to no longer have to hide his dream walking from Dean; the sheer fact that his brother knew made Sam feel better already. He leaned his head against the seat, closing his eyes against the cool wind that streamed in through the window, and drifted off to sleep…

***


End file.
